


Utter No Cries

by Luka z Rivii (wayward_dream)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Dark Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Self-Esteem Issues, Geraskier, Hurt!Geralt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, and so many hugs, angery geralt, dark!geralt deserves more love, geralt deserves a nap, geralt x jaskier - Freeform, jaskier is having none of his bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:47:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23441143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wayward_dream/pseuds/Luka%20z%20Rivii
Summary: Geralt is a monster trying to be a man.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 421
Collections: Best Geralt





	Utter No Cries

**Author's Note:**

> So in Betrayer Moon (god I love that ep and I’ll talk abt it til I’m blue in the face) Geralt waited until he was by himself to take the potion, when there was no chance anyone would see him. Also, may I remind you from ep. 1, when he talks abt his first monster and the reaction of the girl he’d saved? Clearly that’s something that sticks with Geralt, so it’s safe to say he views himself as being pretty monstrous and has some self esteem issues. And thus….this was born. Title is from song Lullaby of Woe.

Geralt should have waited longer before going back. He knows he should have waited. It hadn’t been long enough since he’d downed the potion, he could still feel it running its course in his veins.

But he was tired and he hurt. He’d already paid for his room and the stench of rotted blood and fresh gore stuck in his nose made him desperate for a bath, to scrub the filth from his skin and his scalp as thoroughly as he wished he could wash the blood from his hands, wished he could wash his memories down the drain along with the dirt.

He slunk into the tavern, hoping to slip past the evening crowd up to his room without incident.

He was almost to the stairs when he was intercepted. He kept his face turned down, his hood pulled up and keeping his features in shadow.

“Witcher. What news?” the man rasped, voice rough and shaky. He was pale and his eyes were puffy, a half-gone drink clenched in his hand so tight his knuckles were white. Geralt recognized him ~ the father who’d begged him to bring his daughter home from the sorcerer who’d taken her. Geralt had sworn he would try.

Geralt had failed. His voice came out low and thunderous, more of a growl than he’d intended. “The sorcerer is dead. None of his victims survived.”

The man’s face screwed up and Geralt caught a whiff of hot rage and icy sorrow as the man swore. He was human, and drunk on top of that, so the punch he threw at Geralt had no hope of connecting; Geralt caught his fist with absurd ease and twisted his arm behind his back. His voice was low and dark. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Fuck you,” the man spat out. “You said you would bring her home!”

Geralt released the man and sent him stumbling away with a shove. The man whirled and looked ready to come after him again. Geralt lifted his face to meet the man’s gaze ~ what little color the man had regained from anger drained and left him pale as bone. He staggered backwards in alarm as Geralt advanced on him.

Geralt knew what he saw: chalky skin webbed with veins as dark as ink and speckled with blood spray and random bits of gore (some of the victims had been children; Geralt had butchered the sorcerer until not even the most skilled necromancer had a prayer of calling him back) and solid black eyes that gleamed like polished stones, no whites or pupils distinguishable.

All around the tavern he heard cries of fear and alarm as the patrons caught sight of him. His stomach churned but he paid them no mind, eyes fixed on his prey. He advanced on the father until he stood in front of the man cowering against the wall. “Your daughter was already dead and rotting when I arrived. There was no one to save, only a monster to destroy.”

“Fuck,” the man whispered in horror. He was trembling and stank of rancid terror. “What the hell are you?”

Geralt smiled coldly, pale lips pulling back to bear sharp white teeth that gleamed. He caught a faint whiff of piss as the man soiled himself. At least he hadn’t shit his pants. “I’m the devil that monsters have nightmares about.” He turned to look around and there were a few screams, several people scrambling for the door. He locked eyes with the innkeep, who froze in the act of edging for the door that led to the kitchens. “I’m retiring to my room. I don’t want to be bothered.”

The innkeep opened and closed her mouth several times, swallowed hard, and nodded, apparently unable to force out words. Good enough.

As he advanced up the stairs he heard the buzz of conversation that broke out. _Demon,_ they called him. _Freak. Abomination. Beast._

His ears rang as he shut the door to his room behind him. He closed his eyes and leaned back against it, but all he could see was bodies cut and carved, innocent lives butchered for the sake of evil, and his own failure to prevent it. Geralt’s hands curled into fists as rage boiled in his blood, nausea churning his gut. He staggered into the washroom adjoined to his room and heaved; all that came up was bile and a lingering bit of potion, but he retched as his stomach spasmed and his lungs ached and sweat stung his eyes. When he finally settled he spat in the sink, tried to rinse the taste from his mouth.

He made the mistake of meeting his own gaze in the mirror.

_Mutant. Devil. Freak. Monster. **Butcher.** Beast. Killer. Demon. _The words echoed in his head as he stared in revulsion at despicable black eyes as dark as his soul. His fist connected with the mirror before he’d consciously made the decision to move. Glass shattered noisily, splinters piercing his knuckles. He glared down at the black blood oozing over his hand. Tried to pick out the shards and hissed in pain, his hands trembling.

There was a knock at the door and Geralt yelled, “I said I don’t want to be bothered!”

“Geralt, it’s me.” _Jaskier._ Damn it. Geralt had told him to stay at the brothel tonight specifically to avoid this scenario. “Let me in.”

Geralt growled, stalked out of the washroom so he stood in front of the door. He could see Jaskier’s shadow under it, shifting restlessly. The faint scent of the oils and perfumes Jaskier so loved wafted through as well, and his heartbeat was quiet and steady. Soothing. Geralt leaned his forehead against the door; the wood felt nice against his clammy skin. “Fuck off, bard. I don’t want company tonight.” _I don’t want you to see me like this._

Jaskier tutted and rattled the handle. “Honestly, Geralt, you’re terrible at taking care of yourself after a hunt. I’ve sent for a bath and some food, and I bet you have wounds that need tending to. Open the door.”

“Damn it, Jaskier, just go away.” Geralt banged his fist on the door for emphasis before turning away.

Silence, and then a couple of quiet footsteps. Geralt thought Jaskier was finally taking his advice and breathed a sigh of relief~

**_BANG_ **

A pained yelp followed by muffled curses accompanied the wood of the door groaning alarmingly and Geralt spun around, disbelieving. _He wouldn't….._ A second _**BANG**_ and the lock broke, the door swinging inwards violently. _Of course he would._ Jaskier clutched his arm in painbut he was grinning triumphantly as he let himself in. Geralt stood frozen like a deer in the crosshairs of a hunter, waiting for Jaskier to see him and denounce him, condemn him, his heart frozen in his chest~

Jaskier strode up to him and snagged Geralt’s hand, humming reproachfully as he examined the glass splinters still embedded in the torn flesh. “I can’t tell what’s blood and what’s dirt. We’ll need to examine this~”

“What the hell are you doing?” Geralt hissed, jerking his hand away before Jaskier would notice its shaking.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “You were being an idiot and trying to keep me out, so I decided to let myself in. I’ve seen you kick down enough doors ~ I may not have your strength but these doors aren’t so sturdy~”

_“Jaskier,”_ Geralt snarled.

“That is my name, yes,” the bard agreed.

“Leave,” the Witcher ordered.

“No,” the bard replied simply. Geralt shoved his shoulder to send him stumbling and when the bard’s back hit the wall Geralt was on him in an instant, hands braced on either side of his head and leaning in close so the troubadour would be forced to take a good look at exactly what he was dealing with. Geralt could hear his heart start to race ~ but he smelled no fear on him, no revulsion.

Earnest blue eyes gazed up at him calmly and the beast in Geralt raged, snarled and snapped and said to _hurt_ and _attack_ , to drive him away before Jaskier lay broken and stained in his wretched arms, before Jaskier shared the fate that everyone who became tangled with Geralt seemed damned to share.

Fine shudders started to shake Geralt’s form as he spoke in a low, dangerous voice. “If you’ve any sense in you, you will walk back out that door and not come back.” It was a threat and a plea in one, though only menace was conveyed in his tone.

Jaskier’s voice was maddeningly gentle as he replied, “You yourself often insist that good sense is a virtue that I lack, so we both know that won’t be happening.” He dared to touch Geralt, who sucked in a harsh breath when he felt his hands slipping around to rest on his lower back. “Come here,” Jaskier said softly, drawing him in.

Geralt resisted, it was a bad idea for so many reasons. But he was tired and his resolve was weak; something in him gave and he found himself in the bard’s arms. A hand slid through his hair, the touch light and fleeting. “That’s better,” Jaskier murmured. “Let me take care of you.”

“Jaskier~” It came out embarrassingly shaky, hardly above a whisper. Before Geralt could figure out what he wanted to say, he was interrupted by a knock on the door frame.

Geralt wrenched away as though he’d been electrocuted ~ he’d been so absorbed by Jaskier he hadn’t heard anyone approaching, and the maid in the door flinched when he whirled on her, nostrils flared. “Y-your bath water,” she whispered in a shaking voice. She carried a steaming bucket of water in each hand and there was another girl behind her also carrying buckets. Geralt swore and turned away, striding over to the far side of the room and glaring out the window into the night, trying to avoid seeing his own reflection.

Jaskier tutted and spoke quietly and sweetly to the girls, coaxed them to step in and fill the tub and Geralt heard the quiet jingle of coin exchanging hands before the door was shut again with a gentle click. He stayed still where he was as he heard Jaskier putter around behind him. He smelled oils and salts and heard quiet splashes and closed his eyes.

Quiet footsteps approached and then a light hand fluttered across his back before resting on his shoulder. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Jaskier spoke as though Geralt were a wounded animal that might flee and Geralt snorted quietly, keeping his eyes closed. He growled a protest when Jaskier tugged at his shirt, batting his hand away and earning an exasperated huff. “Enough being stubborn, you great brute, undress and get in the bath so I can get you clean and have a look at your hand.”

_Brute._ A fitting word. Geralt sucked in a breath and turned away from Jaskier’s presence, keeping his back to him as he peeled off his stained and soiled clothes, dropping them carelessly on the floor. He heard Jaskier’s heartbeat start to quicken again as he turned around, but Geralt avoided looking his way as he strode to the tub and stepped in, sinking into the steaming heat with a groan. His eyes slid shut as the heat sapped away the tension coiled in his muscles. He listened to Jaskier move about the room with his eyes shut.

Geralt heard when Jaskier settled on a chair by the tub. “Give me your hand, we need to get that glass out.” Geralt huffed and made no move. He went tense when Jaskier’s hands gripped his arm, but he didn’t resist as it was tugged out of the water and laid on Jaskier’s thigh. Jaskier carefully examined his hand and sighed. “You heal so damned fast, the cuts have closed and the glass is stuck. I’m going to have to reopen the wounds a bit to make sure I get all the of it out,” he told Geralt. Geralt only grunted, tilted his face away from Jaskier as the bard laid his arm on the edge of the tub and got up again.

He was back in only a moment and grabbing Geralt’s arm again. “Try not to jerk around, I don’t want to cut too deep,” was the only warning he got before a blade cut his skin. Geralt stayed still as a statue and didn’t make a sound as Jaskier worked, making clean cuts and carefully extracting all the glass before using a washcloth to thoroughly clean the lacerations. “I’m sorry I had to hurt you,” Jaskier said quietly. Geralt didn’t respond and Jaskier sighed quietly.

The wash cloth touched his cheek, warm and damp, and Geralt jerked away, eyes snapping to Jaskier’s and narrowing. Jaskier raised an eyebrow calmly. “You are covered in filth and making no attempt to clean yourself. Stop being so bratty and stay still.” Jaskier’s eyes flitted down, anywhere but meeting Geralt’s gaze as he cleaned his face, his neck, so Geralt kept his eyes on Jaskier’s.

The effects of the potion had worn off. The fresh blood oozing from his hand was red, no longer black. His eyes would be gold again now, he knew, his veins not visible now that they weren’t black anymore. Still not human, but not as monstrous as before. Still other, but closer to the man he tried to pretend he was most days.

Jaskier dipped the cloth in the bathwater and wrung it out before moving behind Geralt. “Talk to me.” The words were unexpected, as was the gentle touch of hands in his hair. Geralt froze, but the kneading motion of soap being worked through his tangled locks coaxed him back into relaxation.

“What would you have me say?” Geralt responded quietly, closing his eyes again. He was expecting Jaskier to ask about the hunt, to try and niggle for information for another ballad.

“Why did you break the mirror?” Jaskier asked quietly as he lathered Geralt’s hair.

Geralt grit his teeth. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it _matters,_ Geralt,” Jaskier reprimanded him. “Tilt your head back.” The command was paired with a light tug at his hair that Geralt obeyed before he really thought about it, keeping his eyes closed. “Whatever it was, you’re still upset about it. Was it because of the job?” Jaskier cupped his hands and started to rinse out his hair, working the soap through it with efficient care.

“Drop it, Jaskier.”

Jaskier was quiet only for a moment. “I’m not as dumb as you think. I hear what people called you, and I know it bothers you more than you like to let on. I also know that you believe them.”

“Jaskier–”

Geralt’s warning growl was interrupted. “They’re wrong. And so are you.”

Geralt slitted his eyes open to glare up at Jaskier. Not as impressive now that his irises were no longer black, but he still knew that it was an image to strike terror in most people.

Jaskier wasn’t most people. He smiled down at Geralt, a bit sadly. “You’re not a monster, or a devil, or a beast. You’re a witcher, so you’re not human, but that doesn’t mean you’re evil.” He ran his fingers through Geralt’s hair again, and his hands smelled faintly of oils that clung to Geralt’s hair and chased out the lingering death-and-rot-and-fear scent lingering in Geralt’s nostrils and memory.

“What am I, if not all those things?” Geralt asked bitterly.

It was rhetorical, but Jaskier answered anyways. “A hero. A friend of humanity,” he carried on over Geralt’s derisive scoff. “You’re a slayer of monsters who tries his hardest to always do the right thing despite being in a thankless world that tries to push you towards evil. You are brave, and kind, and stalwart, and humanity is luckier than most of them know to have you as our protector.” Jaskier rinsed Geralt’s hair one last time and Geralt sighed quietly as the warm rivulets trickled down the back of his neck and shoulders.

“You’re mad,” he told Jaskier quietly. The words carried no spite or mockery, in fact if you listened closely there was a subtle, fond lilt. He could hear the grin in Jaskier’s voice as he replied.

“It’s one of my best qualities. The most brilliant people have to be a bit mad.” His hands rested on Geralt’s shoulders, squeezed lightly. “You’re feeling better, then?”

Geralt shrugged, deftly sliding away from the touch and the drift back towards serious conversation. “Thank you, Jaskier.”

The bard paused, hurt briefly curled through his scent before he was getting to his feet. “Anytime, my friend. I’m going to go check on the food I asked to be sent up. You just ~ relax and rest, I’ll be back.” Geralt opened his eyes in time to see him disappear through the door and close it behind him.

He sighed and rose from the bath, toweling off and going into the washroom, swiping the towel over the fogged-up mirror to clear it up a bit. The surface of the mirror was fractured, but he stared at himself anyways. 

Skin still pale, but no longer chalky and pasty; slightly flushed on the cheeks, pink rather than grey or stained black. Bright amber eyes with slitted pupils. Pale hair that gleamed pristinely thanks to Jaskier’s attention. He studied the evidence of his mutations, the things that separated him from humanity.

He wasn’t human. Could never be human again. But like this, perhaps he was close enough to a man.

For Jaskier, perhaps he could be enough.


End file.
